Kill My Mind
by AlchemyAndWaffles
Summary: Kyle Broflovski is fed up, angsty and probably a little mad. M for horrific angst and possibly triggering self harm scenes. No ships or pairings or sex at all, i'm afraid. Sorry about that


_Chapter track - Flagpole Sitta by Harvey Danger_

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Kyle Broflovski is fed up. It's been a long week, he's tired, feeling a little sick, and he just doesn't want to be here any more. It's Friday afternoon and he's in English, the last class of the day. His teacher, Mr Green, has a bit of a reputation at Park County High. He's seen as some sort of hard ass, and most of the students are terrified of him, but Kyle doesn't really get it. His classes aren't too bad, but he could do without the end of week test set every Friday. It's not too difficult, but today he's feeling too sick and tired to concentrate. He moves on to the third last question:

_"Identify the metaphor used in lines 38-38 and explain how it contributes to the overall theme of the passage."_

Easy enough, thinks Kyle, and he scrawls down his answer, explaining that the little girl in the story refuses to wear her glasses because she prefers seeing the world blurry. People can choose their own reality.

His gaze drifts over to the clock hanging in front of him. The class is deathly silent, and the clocks ticking screeches out like an alarm. His heart falls a little when he sees that he's still got another half hour to stew in this class. He's not been feeling too great all day, but the longer he sits in this stuffy room the worse he feels. The air's too stale and he wonders when the windows were last opened.

He's still got another two questions left to answer, but he's in no rush. His mind is wandering off and he can't help but feel a little disappointed. He's thinking about the routine things he's done all day and the routine things he'll do this evening, and how the next week will be exactly the same as this one. Everyday might as well be the same, he reasons. And it gets awfully dull. But he doesn't know what else he could expect.

He answers the next question and stares out the window. It's just the same old scene, nothing spectacular - just one big mushy field of snow. Kyle spends a lot of his time in English class staring out at that field. Or, to be more specific, at this little hill that sits in its corner. It might be small, but it's still decent enough for sledding down, he thinks. Or it would be if he was young enough for that kind of thing. The feild's massive, and would be perfect for serious snowball fights and making snowmen and snow-angels and all that other kid stuff.

Kyle shuffles about in his chair a little, trying to get away from the radiator. The heat isn't making him feel any better and he can feel his stomach starting to churn.

He keeps on staring out at the field, thinking about how perfect the snow is and that children should be playing in it. He can even imagine it happening. It takes a little while for the sadness to creep in. It seems to come out of nowhere, but he can definitely feel it, like an invisible blanket draped around his shoulders.

No kids will ever go there. The snow has been untouched for years because even the teenage students at this school don't go there. He's feeling stupid for not noticing that before. Park County High is slap bang in the middle of nowhere, hiding somewhere in the wastelands between South and Middle Park. No one lives round here and no kids have probably ever seen that patch of ground. Even though it's perfect for them. He sees the ghosts of the children he imagined playing out in the field fizzle away into the nothing. It was a stupid thought. He knows there are no kids living round here. He shouldn't feel sad either. It's not like there are kids in Park County in desperate need of snow to play in.

But something about the empty field doesn't seem right to him. Maybe if his brother Ike was a little younger (or didn't act so damn mature all the time) he could drive him and a couple of his friends up-

There's a hacking cough behind him, and it pulls him back to reality. He's still got a test to finish, and that field will still be empty in five minutes time. He has to stop worrying over nothing and just focus. He notices he only wrote half an answer for the last question, so he picks his pencil back up and finishes it.

Wendy Testaburger sits in front of him. Most people agree that she's just as smart as Kyle, but Kyle thinks that if Wendy could just relaxed a little, she would get better grades than him. At the moment, it's obvious that she's stressed about the test. She's tapping her foot and twirling her hair and chewing her pen and - even though Kyle can't see- she'll have that nervous, 'the world is ending' look on her face. All this is normal Wendy behaviour, and can be expected during any exam, test, or challenging lesson. Nobody ever seems to question it, though now Kyle is wondering if maybe they should. It can't be healthy being so worried over school. He doesn't understand why no one would care that she's worried, or even -now that he thinks about it- why she's worrying like this at all. He just doesn't understand. But then, he doesn't understand a lot of what his classmates do. Not for the first time today, he's wondering again if there's something wrong with him.

The clock sounds as if it's getting louder. It's another disappointment when he looks and sees that he's only managed to waste a couple of minutes. The weekend's still too far away and he's not sure he can handle being stuck here for that long. It's far too warm here and the air is all buzzy. He takes a deep breath, as if he's running out of oxygen, feeling a little sicker and a little sicker by the second.

He starts twirling his pencil through his fingers, trying to ignore the tick-tick-TICK of the clock. Acid starts creeping up his throat. When he checks the time again, he hasn't even wasted a minute.

In front of him, Wendy collapses to her desk so she can scribble down an answer. Also, Kyle notices, she is wearing a hat.

This isn't anything unusual. He knows that Wendy usually wears a hat. She likes those little French ones and wears different coloured ones depending on her outfit. Today she's wearing red. He thinks it must be a new one, because he's looking at it like it's new. He thinks that it's okay for him to be wearing that hat indoors, because it's an accessory. He takes a quick check round the classroom.

Most of the other students are also wearing hats. This shouldn't surprise Kyle. He's known these kids for years now, and most of them constantly wear hats. But now it's annoying him. They're sitting inside, in a very hot room, and they're all covering themselves up in woolly hats. It's stupid. Why don't they just take them off?

He guesses he's being a touch hypocritical. He's had a green ushanka welded to his head since kindergarten, but at least he's got an excuse. He needs something to hide his curly hair. (He'd tried cutting it short and straightening and styling it before, but he didn't think it was worth the effort.) None of these kids have an excuse to be wearing their hats. And that fact is starting to annoy him, just like his tired eyes and the static air, and the queasiness growing in his stomach and the clock's constant tick-tick-TICK.

He looks at the time again. Only twenty more minutes to go. He takes a deep breath, as if more air will calm his stomach. It doesn't. He shifts around in his seat some more, trying to get comfy, wondering why the room is getting smaller. Then he remembers he still has a test to finish at some point, so he reads over the final question:

_"Chose your favourite metaphor/simile/word choice or other literary device used in the passage. Explain its meaning, how it contributes to the overall theme of the passage, and why you like it." _

Kyle thinks up his answer, but doesn't write it down straight away. Now he's noticing that Craig Tucker, who sits to the right of him, is leaning back in his seat and running his hand through his hair. The look on his face simply says, 'what?', and it's obvious that Craig has given up this time. Kyle's glad to see that he isn't wearing his hat inside though.

He checks the clock again, and isn't surprised when no time at all has passed. He looks back to Craig, who's now spinning his pen lazily and staring into space.

In less than twenty minutes, the bell will ring and everyone will rush home and the weekend will begin.

Kyle knows exactly what he'll be doing this weekend of course. The exact same thing he's done every weekend since he started high school. Or maybe middle school, he can't be certain.

He will get on his usual bus and sit in his usual seat having the same conversations with the same people. He'll walk home alone and go straight to his bedroom. Then he'll sit down and get started on the weekend's homework. After his dinner, he might go round to see his friends Stan or Kenny, but more often than not these days, he'll just stay in his room, on his laptop or X-Box. Saturdays and Sundays are nothing special for Kyle, and he knows that once he gets home today, he won't leave until Monday morning.

It's depressing to think of, so he tries not to. His weekends have been like this for as long as he can remember. It's been quite normal for him, but now when he thinks about it, he's wondering if it really is. . . well, normal.

He's still looking at Craig, and he has a little look at the rest of the class. It really is far too hot in this room now and the queasy feeling just won't leave him. He wonders how they'll all spend their weekend.

He's pretty sure that they won't be hiding away in their rooms staring at glowing screens. No, there'll probably be a party on somewhere where they will all go and drink lots and listen to loud music and take drugs and screw around with strangers. That sounds about right. He's pretty sure that's what normal teenagers do. His palms are getting a little sweaty. He's thinking back to his lunch break, and how he might have heard Stan mention something about a party in South Park tonight, but he wasn't really paying attention. Maybe he's thinking of last week. Maybe he's just making it up.

He takes a deep, deep breath. He's starting to believe that there really isn't enough air in this room, and that he's going to suffocate. The second he thinks this his heart starts skipping faster and his stomach twists up in knots. This is no good. He can't start panicking.

Maybe all these kids around him -and he could swear they're creeping closer- don't actually go to wild parties every weekend. That kind of thing is just for college students and characters in teen movies. Real people don't actually do stuff like that. Nobody here really drinks until they black out, or does all kinds of drugs and they probably aren't screwing like rabbits.

The acid is still burning in his throat and he can feel his mouth fill up with spit. He's definitely going to throw up soon.

That's just a stereotype, he reminds himself, a dumb little stereotype. It's not for real people. He tries to comfort himself with this thought, and does his best to ignore that little voice in his head that's telling him, _"Well actually most stereotypes are based in truth. They're all out having fun, and you're not because there is something wrong with you."_

He takes a deep breath, and then another one, and wonders how long he can sit here before he suffocates. He shuffles some more in his seat, trying to ignore the beads of sweat that are drooping down his back. He just wants to go home and lie down and stop worrying about whatever it is that everyone else is getting up to. He needs a break.

Then he remembers that he's still not actually written his answer for the final question. He reads it over again, but he can't focus on it when the letters are all melting together. He vaguely remembers the answer he thought up earlier. It makes sense in his mind, but he doesn't know how to put the thought into words and write it down in a coherent sentence.

Another deep breath. His heart is only beating faster and faster, and he's trying as hard as he can to not panic. The clock is still screeching, so he checks it. Just sixteen more minutes and he can leave. Not too long.

The bile keeps yawning and stretching in his belly. But he might be able to hang on.

He looks round his classmates again. Some, like Craig, have completely given up and are just waiting for the time to pass. The rest of them are hunched over their desks trying to cram as many words as possible onto their papers. But everyone keeps on checking the tick-tick-TICKing clock. Everyone is desperate for this class to finally end so they can go home and get on with their lives. Kyle looks over to Mr Green.

He's just sitting at his desk and simply marking papers. Then he pauses to check on the time.

Kyle's stomach just won't stop churning. He starts to wonder why Mr Green of all people might be so desperate for class to end, but his mind is too doughy right now to think too much. It's only making him feel worse. It's far too hot, and static, and crowded in here and Kyle knows he's going to be sick.

He raises his hand in the air, and says,

"Sir? Can I go to the restroom?"

Mr Green makes a little show of putting his pen down on the desk and looking at Kyle over the top of his glasses.

"You may, Mr Broflovski. . ." Kyle pushes his chair back and rises halfway out his seat, ". . .once you have completed all the questions on the passage." And Mr Green goes back to his marking.

Kyle doesn't sit back down, but stays hovering over his desk while he sketches out his final answer in the only way he can think it.

_like lines 14-17, dont know what lit. device. _

_trees = green clouds_

_i like green_

_i like clouds_

_if she thinks trees are clouds then they are_

_reality is what we make of it_

He lets his pencil fall and scrambles out the class as fast as he can manage.

He feels better in the hallway. Much, much better. He starts walking and is amazed that it's so much cooler out here, and so much easier to breath. After taking enough steps, he breaks into a run. Really, there's no need for it. But it dries of the sweat from his face, and the speed matches his skipping heartbeat and for some reason it just feels right. By the time he reaches the restrooms he's out of breath, but feels miles better.

No one else is around, and Kyle is completely alone. He stands over one of the sinks and splashes cold water over his face. He keeps his eyes closed and tries to just focus on slow and steady breathing.

Yes. This is ok. For the moment, he's fine. His stomach is starting to settle down and he doesn't think he'll throw up any more. He splashes some more water on his face. The panic that was building up in class is slowly falling away as his heart slows back down to normal.

It's okay, he tells himself. He might be feeling a little unwell at the moment, but it's nothing serious and it will soon pass. There's nothing for him to worry about and he shouldn't be looking for new things to worry about. Just now, he needs to concentrate on calming down. He doesn't know exactly what's wrong with him, but-

No. No, he can't keep on thinking like that. He runs the tap again, hoping that the little movement will eat up some of that panic that's sneaking back. He can't keep on thinking like that. There's nothing 'wrong' with him. He's fine, normal enough. No, he _is_ normal. Maybe he's just thinking too much.

That seems about right. The more he thinks on it, the more sense it makes. He just let his mind wander away too much and it got him in a little panic. He wasn't thinking about his test, not concentrating on what he was supposed to. And he's not feeling well right now anyway. There is nothing 'wrong' with him and he knows that, so he should just stop worrying about it.

It's a relief to be in complete silence and away from the tick-tick-TICK. He relaxes, sinks down to the floor and presses his head against the edge of the sink. The cold of the porcelain calms him back to the moment, and he can think straight.

It's going to be okay. He knows that now. Everything is going to be alright. He'll go back to class and get his backpack and go home. He'll get on with his life the way he normally does and he will be okay. He doesn't need to worry about anyone else and what they're up to. No kids will be playing in that field, but that's not really important and he shouldn't be thinking about it.

He just needs to keep breathing and relax and everything will be fine. All he can notice is the porcelain against his forehead. This is fine.

Time is ticking on. Kyle doesn't have a watch, but he guesses that he better get back to class soon. He pulls himself upright and clings onto the sides of the sink. His eyes are still shut and he doesn't want to move just yet. This is okay, it's all okay, he's okay and he'll be alright. He keeps on telling himself this, and after a minute or two he almost believes it.

He can handle standing up straight. With quivering hands, he lets go of the sink. This is still fine.

Standing facing the mirror square on, he opens his eyes. This is not good.

He can't explain why, but he feels deflated. He doesn't know what else he could have expected, but he's disappointed to see that same face staring back at him. He's looking a little worse than usual today. His skin's all clammy, and too much hair is leaking out from his hat and there's a big red mark across his forehead from the sink. Other than that, everything's exactly the same as it's been for a long time.

He's got the same murky green eyes and the same bushy eyebrows. The same slightly crooked nose and all the same freckles and lines and wrinkles that have been creeping about his face for years. He's seen this all a million times before and he knows it far too well. The acid in his stomach starts moving again. He's sick of looking at it.

Time is still ticking, and he knows he has to go. But his face is still there. Still lurking in the mirror and sneering out at him. He's really beginning to hate that face. He doesn't want to look at it any more.

The control and calm that he'd just built up slips away from him. He takes a step backwards, almost as if he was going to just walk out the door and back to class. Then he lunges forward, throwing his fist in the air and sending it crashing straight through the mirror.

A spider web crack appears, but unfortunately it stays on the wall. He drags his fist away, making sure the knuckles catch the cracks, so now Kyle is left with a litter of cuts on his hand and little spits of blood crawling from them. Kyle keeps his eyes closed now, because he doesn't want to see that face reflected again and again in the broken mirror. The cuts sting, but he has to go back to class. Before leaving for the hallway, he lifts his fist again to give the mirror another hit.

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_A/N - This story doesn't actually get any better but i'm uploading the rest of it because reasons_


End file.
